Monday, May 23, 2011

Thursday... comes before Friday. As does the show "Three Bad Boys and a Microphone #2" ~ insecure masculinity at it's loudest and most puerile.

...or will it be?

... and is that a rhetorical question? or not? or is this one? ...and why am I asking you, either way?

I mean you'd think I'd really ought to know by now if I was one of the three features. And I am. Puerile. And loud. And insecure. But only masculine in relief with the weedy poets nancy-boys (and hey, get this, we're going to be at 'Bar Nancy'), that I usually hang out with, like say Steve Smart and Leigh Robertson, my co-features.

Sunday, May 22, 2011

A short film that my friend Bill Juers made leading up to the Under The Covers show we did last year. This was a lot of fun to make, Bill did a great job selecting and editing in the clips, and I'm delighted we can finally show people his hard work.

"An in-depth and revealing interview about the harsh realities of life as a performance poet, living in downtown Melbourne. Film-maker Bill Juers was privileged enough to be given nearly 5 minutes of Randall $tephens' time, shortly before one of his poetry performances in August 2010. Seen here for the first time speaking about his art, Mr $tephens holds nothing back in this almost uncomfortably honest expose. The struggles, the heartache, the burdens of vision and genius, the towering intellect, the spell checking, the humanity, oh, the humanity."

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This was a lot of fun to make, infact the whole "Under The Covers" experience was fantastic, we'll definitely be doing another one in the future, maybe sometime in 2012.

Meanwhile I'd really like to get all of the poems from the night edited into their own full YouTube clips and up here for folks to see, there are 22 in all, but that may have to wait until later in the year when I'm back from touring.

come outfrom hiding behind your timeyou’re not the only onewith low notes held aggregate in dial tone not the only one whose ego has been rubbed rawwith rough chunks ripped off your privacywe all have those same sweat-stains and scrub marksbadly hiddenand it’s okay, here

so herelet me help untangle that clutch of your claws, from the bottle, and the inkblot

please stop.

it's timeto ease yourself out of that painted cornereasywith easethe paintbrush nooselet it gogive it upput it downslowly move close closerwarm warmerno sizing up for safetyarms outpalms up

time for youto hang up the hang ups'cause there’s a lot of healingtrying to get into your personal spacemore than the medicine spent

to cover tread marks on your tired forehead

there's a healing hereto wipe away their footprints from your mouth

more than just another slump back slidemumbled up from under couch cushionsthere’s a real smile herewaiting to be seen dug out from your dustup somewherepast pen lidsun stuck from crumbs and small change

Sunday, May 15, 2011

hoping the next man who holds youhas sandpaper handseyes as dull as his words are dullas his mind is dulllike a scuffed floorsharp as a bowling ballhis tongue a toilet brushwaving windshield wiper wildin a cactus kisswith fingertips that pricklike his dickgentle as a bullbar embrace

lying here

rejectionbleeding edges over your last letterloose-leaf crumpled-zone sheet linenhopingghosts of the tenderness I showedwill haunt you unheldthrough a hugged pile of pillowshopingyour skin will remember its tingles stilland crawl lunaticthrough desperately unsleepablehours palpable alivehearing whispered reminders that that whole'touched like you have never been touched before'-thing will nownevertouch you againcold in your comfort zoneforsaken warmth substituting safetyfor my bodynot

lying herein the space

...the space

you saidyou wantedfrom meI'm now lying hereinside of itand at lastsharing nothingwith youand lost nowtrying to feel my way outafter searching around for somethingfrom being inside youto hold on tosomething I could, from you, getto geta gripon my own insides

lying here

trying to get throughthis arched backin my learning curveas it graphed itself outon this mattressmy back bent spiralling fetalcurling through an embryonic crescentso I could be as infantileas you say I am

notam notam notam notI amlying here

paper-weight on that letterto hold down wholeeverything you tried to take backbefore you took offwith your lint brush pluckat every point of lightfound while eyeingour shared-nights skyI triedstraightening outeach of our turnsto the letterevery last phraseI once floated you oneach word magic spelling outI now sink into these curseswanting youto miss meas much as

I hate

you

do

not

know how muchI missyou

fuckyou

saw

the best parts of meto benot good enoughor much too muchthe morethe tighterI tried to hold youthe less you hadto give mebackhackedparts of my past offheld each up to lightbefore throwing them awayto showyou were safewith meto give youmore reasons to stay

anotheryet anotherin tears tearing at myselfI got so smalltrying to fit in the holeyou made inside

me

Me, I've been lying here

lying hereright where you left

lying, to myselfthe whole timepiling up all of this scornto level out a wallagainst having to feel remorsefor each time you tried to warnme

you did try to warn meand I wishnowgodless in regretthatI had not gottenso angrywhen you said

I have a problem

with my anger

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This 167 line monster is intended as a middle poem in a trilogy between 'Hold, Still' and the finale 'Holes'.

--

The gestation period for this was as long and the structuring as difficult as anything I have ever worked on, to date nothing else I've written has endured so much editing. Hopefully that record will stand for a while.